A Recipe for Daphne

by Nektaria Anastasiadou

  Julien folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in the canvas chair. “Never needed it, friend.”

  Fanis took a miniature pen and pad from his breast pocket and noted the name. “Thanks for the tip. Not that I need it either, but just for the odd occasion when one is feeling out of sorts.”

  Ten minutes later Yusuf walked into the tea garden smirking like a fellow twice his age. He tossed a box of condoms into Julien’s lap and strutted back up the street.

  “Dirty old man,” said Fanis. “Look at you, corrupting children.”

  “Educating children, sir! At least Yusuf won’t knock up his girlfriend at fifteen, all because I set a good example.” Julien shouted his thanks and stuffed the package into one of his Velcro pockets. “I’ll have to buy him some candy.”

  “I suppose,” said Fanis, “that you take your diabetes meds regularly, just as the doctor prescribed?”

  “Of course,” said Julien. “At our age, you’ve got to do what the doctors say. Otherwise you’re in big trouble.”

  Presently Fanis heard the characteristic tic-tac of stilettos on cement. By instinct he knew that an exciting woman was approaching. He looked up. A pair of black eyes were fixed directly on him. Black curls bounced around the woman’s head, like the rubber Afros on the dolls in the nearby toy shop. Hips, breasts, and just the right amount of belly fat jiggled beneath an A-line dress.

  Hermes, help me.

  The woman quickly transferred her gaze to Julien, kissed him on the cheek, and said in Turkish peppered with French, “If you’d told me that parking was so difficult around here, Professeur, I’d have come by metro instead of borrowing my mom’s car. Mais vraiment, you know I’m not supposed to tire myself.”

  “Ma pauvre,” said Julien, offering his chair. He switched to Turkish: “Don’t worry. I’m here now.”

  The woman looked remarkably like the siren who had spoken a few words to Fanis outside the Çukurcuma Pharmacy. But, Fanis reasoned, if she knew Greek, Julien would surely have addressed her in that language: speaking Greek was a point of pride with the professeur de musique. Moreover, Fanis had guessed that the woman in the street was in her late thirties. This one seemed more like early forties.

  Julien ordered tea and made introductions: “Selin, this is my old friend Fanis. Fanis, the lovely Selin, a former pupil from Saint-Benoit, a graduate of the Conservatoire de Paris, and now a professional violinist. She recently gave up her job at the Vienna Philharmonic to play with the Borusan.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Fanis, shaking Selin’s hand. “I knew that the Borusan Corporation imported BMWs, but I didn’t know that they also imported beautiful violinists.”

  Selin smiled. “A pleasure. So you’ve heard of the Borusan Orchestra?”

  “I go at least once or twice per season,” said Fanis. “I’ve always loved music. I’m a church cantor.”

  Selin took a paper handkerchief from her oversized handbag and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, neck, and chest. On the left side of her neck, just beneath her jaw line, was a purplish discoloration—a hickey, perhaps? Fanis’s eyes wandered downward. On her left breast there was some sort of floral tattoo. Fanis felt his temperature rise: this one was definitely a fire sign. He realized he was staring, yet he couldn’t look away. So he said, “What an interesting design.”

  “Oh, that. A lotus flower. I had it done when I was in college. I wish I could have it removed, but I’m afraid of the pain.”

  The skinny tea-garden cat, as if on cue, rubbed itself against Fanis’s legs. He stood, pretended to shoo it away, and moved his chair a few inches closer to Selin’s. “What does it represent?” he asked.

  “The lotus has its roots in the mud of the world and rises through the waters of experience to bloom in enlightenment. Kids’ stuff. My mother cried for days.”

  “So you ran out and got another?”

  “Two more,” said Selin, with a characteristic Turkish side-nod.

  Fanis searched the exposed portion of her right breast, her supple arms, and the ankles around which dangled thin silver anklets. All bare. “Where are they?” he asked.

  “Private,” said Selin.

  Aman. Mercy. This one’s going to eat me, finish me off.

  The bells of Saint Anthony of Padua began ringing for vespers. Aliki limped into the tea garden, piled her shopping bags on the table, and said in Greek, “At least there are still trees here, even if they aren’t cypresses.”

  “You remember my pupil Selin, don’t you, Aliki?” said Julien in Turkish. “She’s looking for a place in the neighborhood. Is there anything for rent on your street?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Aliki, smiling to show off her new dental implants. “Where do you live now?”

  “With my parents,” said Selin. “In Levent.”

  Single, thought Fanis. But that hickey probably means she has a boyfriend. He said, “I’ve always considered attention to one’s aging parents a great virtue. I lived with my mother and took care of her until she died.”

  Selin brushed from her lap a fuzzy linden flower just fallen from the tree. “That’s admirable, Mr. Fanis, but I need my independence.”

  “You know,” said Fanis, suddenly remembering having seen a For Rent sign in the building opposite his, “I think there’s a garret available in Faik Paşa Street. Number thirty-two. You might want to check it out.”

  Selin noted the address on napkin. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “In my opinion,” said Aliki, “you should stay with your parents until you marry. So men don’t take advantage of you.”

  “I’ve already been married,” said Selin. “That’s the surest way to get a man to take advantage of you.”

  Aliki chuckled.

  Fanis nodded toward a yellow house that a building crew had been renovating for the past few months. It had rounded oriels, sculpted white molding, a black iron door, and bars on the ground-floor window. “What about that one?” he said. “If you lived there, you could drink tea with us every day.”

  Julien clicked his tongue. “No way. The moans from the cemetery are terrible.”

  “There he goes again,” said Fanis. “Those ghosts are a figment of your imagination, Professeur, stuff for superstitious old people. Nobody would even notice that tiny cemetery if you didn’t keep bringing it up.”

  Once again Fanis heard tic-tacking on cement, but this time there was no emotional surge. He raised his gaze and beheld Rea trying out her sparkly new cane. Kosmas, wearing one of the low-end black Armanis they had seen during their shopping trip, was inching along beside her, like a faithful dog. At Rea’s other side was Dimitris Pavlidis, the old politics reporter from the Tribune and one of Fanis’s former schoolmates.

  “That’s it, Ritsa,” Dimitris cooed in Greek. “Take it slowly.”

  “Were you hoping she’d be here to notice?” said Fanis to Kosmas, as soon as the boy was close enough to hear.

  Rea turned sharply to her son and examined him for an instant. Then she took the seat offered by Julien and said, “So that’s why you were so obsessed with the crease in your pants.”

  Kosmas dumped the slumbering gray cat from a chair and settled down beside his mother. “Nothing escapes you, Mama.”

  Rea switched to Turkish: “Ben malımı bilirim.” I know my goods.

  “Don’t worry, son,” said Aliki, scrunching both eyes at Kosmas. “Her aunt told me she’s coming today.”

  “Are you dating her?” asked Rea.

  “No.” Kosmas held up two fingers and mouthed the word tea, but Emine, the waitress, ignored him.

  “Well,” said Rea, recovering a little, “at least Daphne’s one of ours.”

  “I probably don’t have a chance, Mama, ours or not,” said Kosmas.

  Aliki leaned back in her chair and swung her legs, like a child. “How could any girl not fancy a strong, handsome gentleman like you?”

  Rea folded her freshly manicured hands on top of the table. “She’d have
to be out of her mind.”

  “Selin,” said Fanis, “let me introduce you to Rea, Dimitris, and Kosmas. Friends, I’d like you to meet our star violinist, Selin, who speaks French like a native. She is also an expert in the lotus.” He looked Selin in the eye for a second, wondering if she would realize that he was referring neither to the flower nor to the tattoo, but to one of his favorite Kama Sutra positions. Alas, there was no sign of recognition. Fanis quickly changed tack: “Excuse me, Madame Emine! A second round of tea, please.” Then to Selin, “Yours must be cold by now. A hot tea will cool you off. That’s what the Arabs say, anyway.”

  Selin put her hand on Fanis’s forearm for a split second, provoking a tingling sensation that shot all the way to Fanis’s groin. “Thanks, Mr. Fanis,” she said, “but my doctor said only one per day.”

  Julien explained, “She recently had an operation to close a hole in her heart.”

  “Now that’s the operation I need,” whispered Fanis.

  Selin leaned sideways. He could smell a sweet, spicy perfume whose name he could not recall. Her curls brushed the tip of his ear. “I’m warning you,” she said, in a seductive tone, “I’m dangerous. Before men came and went through the hole, but the next one will have to stay.”

  For a second Fanis wondered if he should leave Daphne to Kosmas and pursue this feisty one instead. In an attempt to determine her religion, he asked whether her name was the Turkish Selin or the French Céline, which were almost identical in pronunciation, and he received an answer he had not expected: she was not French at all, but a Turkish Jew. Fanis felt a sudden thrill, as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, looking downward. He had always wanted to have an affair with a Jewish woman. He’d had plenty of Rums, a few Levantines and Armenians, one Turkish widow, and even a Sri Lankan waitress, but not one Jew. At last.

  “How nice,” he said. “I go to Neve Shalom Synagogue occasionally. I love the chant, so much like ours, but more refreshing.”

  “That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?” said Selin. “I mean, a Rum going to synagogue?”

  “Certainly it is. But I passed by one Friday evening years ago and was enchanted by the melody. I’ve been hooked ever since.”

  “I’d like to hear you chant sometime,” she said.

  “Perhaps you will. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but the roots of our ecclesiastical chant are Jewish. In the depth of history, our traditions meet. So why shouldn’t they meet again in the present?”

  “True,” said Selin, looking into his eyes as if no one else were present. “I bet I’ll even understand a little.”

  “You speak Greek?” said Fanis, unable to believe his luck.

  “I learned from a Rum boyfriend.”

  “Are you still together?”

  Selin giggled, like a mischievous jinn. “No, Mr. Fanis. I haven’t seen him since I was eight. Our summer houses were next to each other on Prinkipos Island. He also taught me how to pee like a boy into a laundry drain so that I didn’t have to go home to use the restroom.”

  “How naughty,” said Fanis. The childhood boyfriend had been an unconventional type: just like Fanis.

  “We got in trouble for rusting the drain, and I had to relearn how to pee like a girl, but I can still understand Greek.”

  “Could we have met in Turnacıbaşı Street recently? I thought it might have been you, but when you started speaking Turkish with the professeur I wasn’t sure.”

  Before Selin had a chance to reply, Dimitris interposed, “Do you speak Ladino?”

  “Yes,” said Selin. “But none of my nieces and nephews can. They’re all learning English instead. My generation is probably the last of the Spanish speakers.”

  “What a pity,” said Aliki, covering her mouth. “It’s the same for all of us. My daughter married a Muslim. Her children understand Greek, but they’re too lazy to speak it. If you want my advice, marry one of your own. Otherwise, your traditions and identity will be lost.”

  The conversation about marriage and continuity dragged on, but Fanis found himself unable to concentrate on what Selin was saying. Her voice washed over him, pulling him inside its current, spinning him around, floating him on its crest. Was this the beginning of a second infatuation? Or was it a “declining ability to pay attention,” yet another symptom of vascular dementia? Sometimes it was so difficult to know the difference between love and degeneration.

  “Good evening, everyone!” said Gavriela, breaking the trance.

  Daphne was standing beside her aunt in a straight day dress just like the ones that Fanis remembered from the sixties, when he was a comfort to women whose husbands had gone to Greece to find a job and a small apartment before sending for the family. My God. How could he have allowed himself to be distracted by the violinist? A woman like Daphne could raise the dead. Marriage with her would be a renaissance not only for him, but for their community as well.

  In an expert hustle and bustle, Fanis grabbed a chair from a nearby table, offered it to Daphne, and squeezed himself between the two young women. Adjusting the silk scarf around his neck, he said, “Daphne, dear, with all that studying, I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to see our City. I’d love to show you around. Would you like to join us, Selin? If you have some free time on Saturday, perhaps the three of us could meet at the Pearl for profiteroles and go from there. I can show you parts of the City that nobody knows.”

  “Why not start at the Lily?” said Rea.

  “The Lily,” repeated Fanis. “Well, yes, the Lily has quite a reputation, and I’m sure Kosmas does a superb job, but I was thinking of the Pearl more for the atmosphere.” To show that he was au courant with current issues, Fanis added, “Besides, I don’t know if anyone can make anything decent out of the genetically modified wheat we have now. What you do think, Kosmaki? Share your thoughts.”

  Kosmas set his elbows on the wooden armrests of the patio chair, folded his hands in the air, and said, “I’m not old enough to remember what wheat was like when you were young, Mr. Fanis.”

  Was the little brat trying to stick it to him? Well, it wasn’t going to work. Because Fanis was not the least bit ashamed of the number on his identity card. “Such a pity!” he said. “I remember the Lily when it used to make a fabulous pastry called the Balkanik. Back in your grandfather’s time. I bet you’ve never even heard of the Balkanik.”

  “I have, in fact,” said Kosmas, “but it’s not something I’ve ever made. Or tasted.”

  Fanis turned to Daphne. “The Balkanik, my dear, was a coiled éclair filled with strips of different flavored creams. One for each of the Balkan peoples. Despite recent conflicts, we lived in harmony for centuries.”

  “Do you know its origins?” said Daphne.

  “No, but I do remember my mother saying that it was a very, very old recipe. Unfortunately, everybody stopped making it after the pogrom of ’fifty-five and the deportations of ’sixty-four. Harmony became a doubtful word back then. It’s too bad because it was the most divine pastry ever created.”

  “The Balkanik was the reason I became a journalist,” said Dimitris, with his characteristic stutter. “Fanis, do you remember Miss Evyenidou?”

  Fanis served Daphne a few butter cookies despite her protests. “Of course,” he said. “I used to try to touch her long hair when she wasn’t looking.”

  Dimitris waved both of his shaking hands in excitement. “Miss Evyenidou failed me in first grade because I didn’t pay any attention. The second time around she made sure I learned to write better than anyone. My mother felt sorry for her because she had to deal with me twice, so she sent me to school with a Balkanik as a gift, and Miss Evyenidou shared it with the class.”

  “Do you know its origins, Mr. Dimitris?” asked Daphne.

  “Of course. Miss Evyenidou gave me a prize for an essay I wrote about it. The Balkanik was invented by the great Rum pâtissier Christakis Usta in the sixteenth century. He went to Florence to study with Pantarelli, the chef of Catherine de’ Medici, but
he missed Istanbul so much that he decided to invent a pastry to honor it. Christakis Usta mastered Pantarelli’s pastry technique, then designed flavored creams that would represent the diversity of his homeland.” Dimitris gazed dreamily upward at the linden tree, ruffling in the evening breeze. “Rose, cardamom, chocolate, vanilla, pistachio, and others that I don’t remember—all distinct yet complementary. You could pick the pastry apart and try to eat them one by one, or you could be lazy and stick your spoon in with your eyes closed and taste them all together.”

  “I’ll ask Uncle Mustafa,” said Kosmas.

  Daphne took a sudden interest in Kosmas. “You have a Muslim uncle?”

  “He was my late father’s business partner. And now mine. But I’ve called him ‘Uncle’ for as long as I can remember.”

  Daphne leaned her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in ringless hands. “I love the symbolism of that pastry.”

  “Uncle Mustafa has an old Ottoman recipe book,” said Kosmas. “The Balkanik has to be in it.”

  “You can read Ottoman script?”

  “A little. I studied it a few years ago.”

  Daphne faced Kosmas squarely, turning her back to Fanis. “Really? Why?”

  “I found it frustrating not to be able to read the inscriptions on mosques, fountains, and other monuments. Once I got past the Arabic script, I found it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be.”

  Daphne nodded in respect. Fanis, however, was not so gullible. He would put the boy to the test. Pointing at a cemetery obelisk with ornate floral motifs, he said, “Can you read that tombstone over there, Kosmaki?”

  Kosmas examined the obelisk. “It’s the grave of a nineteen-year-old girl named Şükran, daughter of Ömer Efendi. She died in the Islamic year 1313, at the end of the nineteenth century, that is. The poem reads: ‘I came into this world to become a blossoming vine, but I did not have the joy of raising a child, nor did I find medicine for my sorrow.’”

  Bastard. It seemed that he really could read Ottoman, unless he was clever enough to fake it, which was doubtful. Fanis returned his attention to Daphne. He loved her smile, but not when it was directed at Kosmas. Feigning annoyance with some fallen leaves, he pulled his chair closer to hers. The tea-garden cat, which had apparently been lying beneath it, startled and yowled.